


Simply Human [Error]

by gaylock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Jealous Sherlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Sherlock has feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-03-11
Packaged: 2018-05-16 17:16:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5833933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylock/pseuds/gaylock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn't know how to deal with those things normal people call feelings. Love, admiration, jealousy, anxiety - the list goes on and on. Now that his body is succumbing to baser human instincts, he finds himself having a much harder time controlling himself; especially around one John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nerves

Sherlock felt a strange fluttering in his stomach, and it took him a full minute before he identified it as nerves. “Butterflies,” he muttered hatefully, staring down at his belly like it had somehow betrayed him by allowing itself to flutter anxiously. And perhaps in his mind it had. Nervousness, a side affect of being nothing more than pathetically human. Not that he knew much about being human; in fact, according to some sources (in laymen’s terms; idiots) he didn’t know anything at all. He was practically alien. And though he would be the first to admit said sources weren’t entirely reliable (Anderson and Donovan), it didn’t stop him from wishing at this moment that what they said was true.

“Sorry? Did you say something?” And there was the reason for the butterflies; ex-army doctor and blog writing professional John H. Watson. Master of all things tea related, reliable purchaser of milk and sugar, and flatmate extraordinaire. John. Hamish. Watson.

The man he loved.

(And had loved for who knows how long; he himself had only realised it hours earlier, while trying to converse with his skull on matters pertaining to all the infuriatingly dull cases Lestrade insisted on giving him, because the police at NSY were incredibly stupid.)

Sherlock hastily turned around, shoulders hunched high and dressing gown wrapped tightly around his thin waist. Thin, too thin. TOO THIN because John liked curves, not sharp edges, he liked soft curves and why was he thinking about this now? John was always telling him to eat, to not be so thin but who cared what John said, it didn’t matter, shut up shut up SHUT UP. “Hmm? What? Oh, yes.” He strode into the kitchen, avoiding the expanse of sky blue heaven that were John’s eyes as they traced his steps in bemusement.

“And? What was it then?” John shifted in his chair slightly and turned his body so he was facing Sherlock. Despite trying his hardest to keep his eyes away, Sherlock found himself watching the way the light from John’s laptop made strange patterns and shadows appear on his tan skin. He wasn’t poetic, but he could see the beauty, visible, tangible, and for the first time he understood why poetry was written. John raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock snapped his eyes away and started to boil water in the kettle. “Butterflies. It’s about a—”

“About a case, yeah, I know.” John cut him off and rolled his eyes in amusement. Not that Sherlock noticed. He was pointedly NOT staring at John, instead fixing his gaze on the kettle and cups in front of him. But he always had had excellent peripheral vision.

John continued on, as if his flatmate wasn’t currently having an intense staring contest with their china. “Is it a new one? ‘Cause Greg didn’t say anything to me when I saw him last night, and as far as I know we haven’t had any new clients, so…well, it could be from Mycroft, I suppose, but…..Sherlock, are you making tea?”

Sherlock poured the boiling water into the two cups, saying flatly, “Yes.” Before opening the fridge and pulling out the milk.

John’s lips quirked slightly (not that Sherlock noticed or anything) before removing his laptop from his lap. “Was that a yes, you’re making tea, or yes, it’s a new case?” He stood up and stretched, arms above his head. As he stretched, his green jumper was pulled up slightly to reveal a thin expanse of naked flesh. Grey eyes widened and stared.

If it took Sherlock longer than generally necessary to answer that question, John didn’t notice. “Both. The answer 'yes’ applies to both queries you posed.” He croaked out, his mouth suddenly incredibly dry. He licked his lips and put the milk away, before slowly walking the full cups into the sitting room. John accepted his cup with a smile.

“I’m surprised.” John raised his cup and took a sip, his smile widening at the perfect combination of milk and sugar.

“That I have a new case?” Sherlock pretended to study the steam lifting off his cup in swirls, while actually utilising previously mentioned excellent peripheral vision to watch as John’s tongue darted out to lick a drop of tea from his pink lips.

“That you made tea.” Sherlock (covertly) observed as John took another sip from his cup.

“Dull.” He calculated that due to the ratio between consecutive minutes passed and mass of water divided by expanse of heat and the cooling aspect of fog, his tea would now be cool enough to drink. Lifting his own cup up to his lips, Sherlock took a sip and nearly dropped the cup. He scowled at the offending beverage and ran his now burnt tongue against the top of his mouth. Apparently his calculation’s were a bit off; the tea was still incredibly hot.

John chuckled and shook his head. Sherlock’s stomach flipped even as his scowl deepened. Just because John could handle hot things in his mouth, didn’t mean everyone could. Speaking of hot things in ones mouth…Sherlock stopped those thoughts before they could go any further and transform into images. And then he grabbed them pushed them down, before deciding that while now might not be the time, later most certainly could be. So he picked them up and brushed them off, allowing himself one last glance at the tantalising imagery before putting them carefully away into a safe corner of his Mind Palace.

“Now, I’d be truly surprised if you bought the milk.” John crossed his legs and grinned.

Sherlock huffed. “I’ve bought the milk before.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock blew on his still steaming tea before answering. “What?”

John raised his eyebrows. “You have never. Ever. Bought the milk.” A grin punctuated his words. “Ever.”

Sherlock paused to think back. 'Oh. Well, there was that one time with that experiment with lactose and bleach and the human liver……but John didn’t know about that, and it did cause that burn on the table….Which I have denied ever since. So, better not tell him then.’

“Well, that’s why I’ve got you, isn’t it? To buy the milk.” He took a (cautious) sip of his tea to cover the small grin on his face. It widened at the chuckle from the other man.

“Ah yes, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes’s personal milk maid.” This time Sherlock didn’t bother to hide the grin that was spread across his features as he got up from his chair and moved to his room.

“Precisely. What would you do without me? I give your life purpose.” He shot back, before entering his room and closing the door.


	2. Panic

"Sherlock! I'm going out, I'll be back around 11!" John's voice filtered through the still closed door, but Sherlock ignored it.  
  


Or at least, he tried to; but his body betrayed him (again) and he felt the flutter of butterflies for the second time that day. He scowled, disgusted with himself and his body's reactions. So much for 'just transport'. He let out a rough sigh, eyes closed and lips parted, because he knew that the real reason he was so upset had nothing to do with his body's natural reaction, and everything to do with where John was going, and who he was going with.  
  


His violin was a good distraction; maybe it would be enough to get him to forget about the tread of John's expensive shoes (only worn on dates or to weddings) on the stairs, or the sound of an extra ten minutes in the shower. The smell of John's new cologne (gift from Harry) and although Sherlock couldn't see through the door, he would bet his best violin bow that John had product (probably gel) in his blonde hair.  
  


Sherlock's scowl deepened and his hand tightened around his bow. It was obvious, really; painfully obvious: A date. John was going on a date, and not with just anyone, but with SARAH. AGAIN. Sherlock inhaled quickly and placed his bow on his violin, before running it over the strings in a quick, unharmonious screech of sounds that perfectly matched the strange aching echo of his heart.  
  


He focused on the screeching sound his violin was making, trying to mask the rustle of John’s coat as his friend got ready to leave the flat. After a few more times running his bow over the strings in a cacophonous dissonant melody, Sherlock heard the door shut and the sound of John walking down the stairs to the street. After several moments of internal debate, he opened the door to his room and stepped across the sitting room to the window. He held his violin and bow aloft, watching out the window as John’s ash-blonde hair passed below him, before disappearing into a waiting cab. His pale eyes stared out into the street, gaze following the cab as he raised the violin up and placed the bow onto the strings. He held his breath, everything around him still, the streets below empty and un-moving but for the cab driving slowly down the street. He stared at the dark shape of John’s head, silhouetted against the window of the cab, and waited. And in the moment before the cab turned to corner, in the very second before Sherlock lost John to the rest of the world, he let out his breath and played the opening note of a Tchaikovsky piece from The Nutcracker (one of John’s favourites).

  
It wasn't the same, playing the violin when John wasn't there to listen, to rain praise down on him, to appreciate the beauty of the music. Actually, nothing was the same, when John wasn't present; not crime scenes, not music, not interrogations. Sherlock abruptly stopped, holding his bow away from the strings of his instrument, and scowled. These things, these....feelings.... were immensely inconvenient. They ruined everything! He couldn't even enjoy a simple song, without John Watson's presence.

Sighing wearily, he placed his instrument down and stared out the window at the dark sky, watching as rain began to fall. "It seems," He said quietly, tilting his head to acknowledge the skull sitting on the table to his right, "It seems that I am more human than I thought." He raised a single finger to trace over the cool glass, watching rain drops slowly fall down the pane. He jolted in surprise when he felt a wetness on his hand, and looking down, expected to see a leak of some sort in the window.

What he actually saw caused Sherlock no small amount of surprise; one single salty droplet of water sat, like a glistening bead on his hand. Lifting his hand to his face, he realized that the droplet of water hadn't come from the outside at all, but from him. His long, pale fingers ran lightly over his wet cheek, and he huffed out a breath.   
  
"I... I am... crying?" He said, like it was a question, like he wasn't quite sure if he was right. Turning to see his wretched reflection in the window, the raindrops on the other side mixing with the tears on his face in the pale reflection, Sherlock felt something inside of him break. He hunched his shoulders and let out a cry as his chest filled with a pain he'd never felt before; it was like his heart was on fire, like someone was squeezing the life out of him. His body was wracked with sobs, and his face was covered in tears, and he realized that his was what it was like to love someone who would never love you back.

And as he shuddered, curled up in front of the window, he thought to himself, 'Mycroft was right; Caring is not an advantage.'


End file.
